Flights of Angels

Commemoration... Relection... ContemplationPoems read at the concert by Tideswell SingersMusical Director: Carol Bowns11 September 2011Tideswell Parish Church 'Cathedral of the Peak'Tideswell, DerbyshireNORMALLY Written by Elizabeth Harrington following the 9/11 attacksI have no politics to speak of,but last week I bought a paperback versionof American History for Beginners.At breakfast, I turned to the plumeof Hiroshima while munchingon the dark side of toast.I was reminded of the beautyof gesture--the “duck and cover” we learnedin grade school and how we crouchedunder our desks from the Cold War.I never talk to strangers. But on Cobb Lane,I smiled at a woman walking a collieand wanted to hug her dog.I’m not religious,but for the first time in years,I go to church, chant the Nicene Creed, hungerfor something clean--wings, say.Usually I wake at 6, brew coffee,pack my knapsack, pull the door to,and walk six-tenths of a mile to the train.Today I slept late, dreamingof flying in a small plane in a wobbly sky.At the station, passengers loaded with heartscome aboard, checking their watches.Normally I don’t describe them.Today I can’t help noticing the uprightbodies, the feet angled in as if to stay,the ticket taker who hitches up his pantsand waits. Usually I look out the window,or read the Times. Today I notice howa little boy’s hair shines in the sunand have the urge to feel his warmththrough my palm. I wonder about the synapsesthat fire beneath the scalpor our forward facing feetwhen all we want is to go back.Normally, I write about what I feel.Now my biggest fear is failedpoems--the kind that take youjust short of understandingand leave you there--yourhope thin, combustibleas the white flesh of cigarettes.Elizabeth Harrington

NO MEN ARE FOREIGN

Remember, no men are strange, no countries are foreignBeneath all uniforms, a single body breathesLike ours: the land our brothers walk upon Is earth like this, in which we all shall lie. They too, aware of sun and air and water,Are fed by peaceful harvests, by war's long winter starv'd.Their hands are ours, and in their lines we readA labour not different from our own.Remember they have eyes like ours that wakeOr sleep, and strength that can be wonBy love. In every land is common lifeThat all can recognise and understand.Let us remember, whenever we are toldTo hate our brothers, it is ourselvesThat we shall dispossess, betray, condemn.Remember, we who take arms against each other.It is the human earth that we defile,Our hells of fire and dust outrage the innocenceOf air that is everywhere our own.Remember no men are foreign and no countries strange.James Kirkup

THE PEACE POEMThere's a name for war and killing, there's a name for giving in when you know another answer; for me the name is sin. But there's still time to turn around and make all hatred cease,and give another name to living - and we could call it peace.And peace would be the road we walk,each step along the way,and peace would be the way we work and peace the way we play.And in all we see that's different ,and in all the things we know,peace would be the way we look and peace the way we grow.There's a name for separation, there's a name for first and last, when it's all for us or nothing;for me the name is past.But there's still time to turn around and make all hatred cease, and give a name to all the future - and we could call it peace. And if peace is what we pray for and peace is what we give, then peace will be the way we are and peace the way we live. Yes, there's still time to turn around and make all hatred cease,and give another name to living -and we can call it peace. John Denver, 1982 Taken from The John Denver Memorial Peace ClothEVERYONE SANGEveryone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on… on… and out of sight.

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. Siegfried Sassoon

Temporary web page. The poems will be saved here for two months from 11 September 2011